Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

“Oh, boy,” the FBI man says with a grin. “The shit is beginning to hit the fan, old buddy.”

“How so?”

“Because the Pleasure Dome was owned by the United Bamboo mob. It was one of the string of whorehouses they operated up and down the West Coast. So now let’s recap … Giant Panda is buying into White Lotus. And the wife of the bossman at White Lotus once worked in a crib owned by United Bamboo. What do you make of that?”

“Nothing,” Cone says. “I can’t figure it.”

Johnnie Wong leans across the table, thrusting his face close to Cone’s. “You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?”

“Not me. I’m just as flummoxed as you are.”

The FBI man sits back, then slaps the tabletop with a smack of his palm that brings Cleo growling out from under the tub.

“Damn!” Wong says angrily. “I told you I felt in my stones that something is going down. I pick up rumors and get tips from my snitches. The big guns of United Bamboo and Giant Panda are in town. A lot of meetings. A lot of comings and goings. That murder of Chen Chang Wang. And now this business with White Lotus. Something’s cooking. Maybe a full-scale gang war. Maybe just a fight for the New York territory. Who the hell knows? Listen, if you get anything, give me a shout. Even if you think it’s not important. I’ll do the same with you. I’d like to stop these assholes before they start shooting up Manhattan. Keep in touch, and thanks for the beer.”

“Anytime,” Cone says.

After Wong leaves, Cone goes into the kitchenette and starts heating up a can of corned beef hash. He wonders if he spilled too much in revealing the identity of Claire Lee. He decides not. After all, he didn’t say a word about the blackmail letter.

Because the FBI agent has no need to know. Not yet.

Cone spends Thursday morning in the office making a series of desultory phone calls on those two tedious files he was assigned. It’s donkeywork, and while he’s talking to people and scribbling notes, he’s thinking about the White Lotus affair and remembering how great Claire Lee looked in her spinnaker hat. The life she’s led hasn’t raddled her beauty; she looks untouched by human hands.

Maybe, Cone imagines, she sold her soul to the Devil in exchange for eternal youth. He’d be willing to sign a contract like that, but the Devil has never asked him.

He finally gets all he needs to close out the two cases. The shlumpf who fell for the miniature horse scam ain’t going to get his money back. And the two plastic manufacturers can merge with confidence and live happily ever after. Sic transit …

He’s smoking his fourth cigarette of the day, scanning the stock tables in The New York Times, when his phone rings. He stares at it a moment, then puts his newspaper aside and picks it up, thinking it might be the Devil calling, ready to make a deal.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Mr. Cone, this is Edward Tung Lee. How are you this morning?”

“Surviving.”

“I’m going to be in your neighborhood shortly and wondered if I could stop by your office for a few minutes. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“Sure,” Cone says, “come ahead. I’ll be here.”

Lee arrives in less than ten minutes, which makes Cone think the guy called from around the corner; there’s no way he could have made it from Exchange Place that quickly.

He’s dressed as dapperly as he was at Ah Sing’s Bar amp; Grill, this time in a gray silk suit that glints like a newly minted silver dollar. But the breezy self-confidence is dented; he’s got the jits. That high, broad brow is sheened with sweat, and he can’t stop twisting his gold bracelet around and around.

He slumps into the chair facing Cone’s desk with no digs about the claustrophobic office.

“First of all,” he starts off, “I want to thank you for not telling my father that you and I were at Ah Sing’s when Chen Chang Wang was killed.”

“Yeah, well, since you hadn’t told him, I figured you must have a good reason.”

“I didn’t want to upset the old man,” Lee says earnestly. “He and Chen were friends from way back.”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says. “But he must have read about it; all the papers carried it. And I suppose it was on local TV.”

“Oh, he knows about it, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell him.”

“Sure,” Cone says.

“About your investigation,” Lee goes on. He plucks a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at his forehead. “Hot day.”

“Yeah,” Cone says. “Usually is in summer.”

Lee ignores that. “About your investigation,” he continues. “Have you been getting anywhere?”

“Not really,” Cone says. “I had a couple of other files I had to work on.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find it’s just the way I explained at Ah Sing’s: normal market activity, a flight to quality.”

“Could be,” Cone says. “I see where White Lotus was up another seven-eighths yesterday. Heavy volume for a stock with your capitalization.”

“Just a blip,” Edward says. “Nothing to it.”

The Wall Street dick makes no reply, waiting for this Nervous Nellie to speak his piece.

“Actually,” Lee says, swabbing his brow again, “what I wanted to talk to you about has nothing to do with White Lotus. It’s more of, ah, a personal matter.”

“Oh?” Cone says, wondering when he was ordained and became a father confessor. “What’s that?”

“It’s silly, really,” the man says with a shaky smile. “Probably nothing to it.”

Cone waits silently, giving him no help at all. If this guy, he thinks, tells me he once worked at the Pleasure Dome, I’m going to toss his ass out of here.

“As you probably know,” Lee plunges ahead, “I live in my father’s apartment. But I have my own suite with a private entrance. I also have my own phone, an unlisted number. Last Friday night, at about eleven o’clock, I was reading when the phone rang. A man’s voice asked, ‘Edward Tung Lee?’ I said yes, and he said, ‘We know about the Bedlington.’ And then he hung up. Well, naturally I thought it was just a crank call. But it did worry me that he had my unlisted number and called me by my full name.”

“Recognize the voice?” Cone asks.

“No,” Lee says. “A BBC English accent, but beneath that I thought I heard something else. Perhaps a Chinese educated in England. A singsong quality you learn to recognize.”

“I get it,” Cone says. “Instead of emphasizing a syllable, you change the pitch of your voice.”

Lee looks at him in astonishment. “How on earth did you know that?”

“I remember a lot of useless stuff,” Cone says. “So the guy said, ‘We know about the Bedlington.’ Then he hung up. Right?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Then, last night, he called again. Same voice. He said, as nearly as I can recall, ‘About the Bedlington, you’ll be hearing from us.’”

“You’re sure he said ‘us’ and not ‘you’ll be hearing from me.’?”

“No, he said ‘us.’ And on the first call, he said, ‘We know about the Bedlington.’”

“Uh-huh,” Cone says.

“Does the name Bedlington mean anything to you?” Edward asks.

“Sure,” Cone says, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’s a dog, a terrier.”

Lee gives a short honk of laughter. “True,” he says. “It also happens to be a hotel on Madison Avenue. About three blocks from my apartment. From my father’s apartment.”

“So?”

“Well, ah, as you probably know, I am not married. But, hah! — that doesn’t mean I must live like a monk-right? So, on occasion, I have taken a woman to the Hotel Bedlington. You’ve shacked up with women in a hotel or motel, haven’t you?”